Hugh sighed, clenching his jaw, rough hands tightening around his sticks as he glare at the bass line with malice in his dark eyes. Finals were tomorrow. How the hell could they still not nail this set? He glanced quickly at the electronic clock on the cold concrete walls of the cafeteria, numbers flashing with the red hot intensity of demons eyes. 8:30. Only 30 minutes left to perfect something that was far from perfect.
"Reset!" TJ yelled, frustration gnawing at the edge of his broad voice. The pit eyed each other uneasily as the worn creaking of drums bouncing on carriers filled the still air. "Duck stuff! This is duck stuff, guys!" TJ bellowed, his normal cool facade long faded into impatient oblivion.
It continued like this until 9 o'clock. Feet aching, heads pounding, they were released. The air was undeniably tense with frustration and nervous anticipation for the morning that loomed ahead, eyes fixed on them hungrily.
As tear down began, the techs dispersed to speak among themselves about the grim outlook of the next day.
As people began slamming chairs into their places and straightening cafeteria tables, Hugh froze in his spot. He felt a chair slide painfully into his leg. Raising his gaze blankly, he met the eyes of Ryan, shoulders drooped, eyes alight with frustrated fire.
With a sudden wash of sadness, like acid blazing across bare skin, Hugh remembered that tomorrow may be all there was left for him.
"Hey!" he suddenly called out, raising his hand to grab the visual attention of those around him. The frantic movement of the drum line finally halted, just as a man's heart seizes with his last gasping breath. He wasn't quite sure what to say. So there he stood for a few still moments, mouth moving silently until he found it; the words he wanted to say. With a sudden burst of insane inspiration, he leapt atop the chair Ryan had slid to him, raised his arm, puffed out his chest, and took a deep breath....
"Now-"
There was an enormous crashing sound, equivalent to that of someone flipping over 20 cafeteria tables. Because that's exactly what it was. Hugh tumbled out of his make shift podium, landing hard on his back as the rest of the drum line spun around to see what on earth had caused such a cacophony of sound.
To put it quite simply, there was literally an explosion. Soot rained down into everyone’s' eyes as they sputtered, gasping for clean air.
Evan stumbled to the right, hands outstretched, colliding gracelessly with Cesar, who cried out indignantly, and then proceeded to enter an extreme coughing fit.
Hugh focused in on the scattered sounds around him, trying to paint a mental picture of the situation. It was impossible. His hand shot out in front of him, frantically searching for anybody he could grab ahold of. A rough jacket met his palm, rubbing against his skin. He tugged at the person's arm, eyes shut tight, trying not to breathe in the heavy air. He swam towards the wall, sliding along the rough brick until he felt the cold metal door fold in under his weight.
Collapsing into the chill night, Hugh gasped, the fresh air piercing his lungs like needles. Eyes shooting open painfully, he searched frantically for whoever it was that he had escaped with. He expected to meet the kind eyes of Meagan, or maybe Sarah's small frame, but instead he was staring at a stranger.
Two huge frames of almost comically sized goggles hugged the man's face, giving him the appearance of a curious blow fly. His lanky frame stood adorned with a tweed jacket, rolled lazily at the elbow. His tight waistcoat was rumpled and patched, sporting a rich gold chain that ran across the abdomen.
The man approached Hugh slowly, mouth slightly open in amazement. All Hugh could do was stare, transfixed on the glowing orbs that covered his eyes, shrouding him in mystery.
Spidery hands reaching forward slowly, he knelt down beside Hugh, enduring the cold burn of the concrete.
Hugh's feet scraped across the ground as he tried to push away, but the man grabbed his hand. Hugh tensed, ready to fight his way out if necessary, but something about the stranger's motions told him it wouldn't be.
A smirk flashed across the man's narrow face, and with a whisper that demanded the attention of an army, he said, "We should probably go help your friends."
